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The Pride of the Village, 



AND OTHER TALES 



FROM "THE SKETCH BOOK." 



BY 



WASHINGTON IRVING, 



ILLUSTRATED WITH ORIGINAL DESIGNS BY EMINENT ARTISTS. 




PHILADELPHIA: 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY. 

LONDON: 15 RUSSELL STREET, CO VENT GARDEN. 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1863, by 

G. P. PUTNAM, 

In the Clerk's Office of tlie District Court of the United States for the Southern District 

of New York. 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1875, by 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO., 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, 



Copyright, 1886, by J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, 



CONTENTS 



/ PAGE 

^ THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE 7 

^J THE WIDOW AND HEE SON 21' 

-l THE BROKEN HEART 33 

THE WIFE 41 

J A ROYAL POET 53 

y THE COUNTRY CHURCH 73 



THE PEIDE OF THE VILLAGE. page 

Initial, ^ 

The Funeral 8 

The Pride of the Village 17 

Tail-Piece: Swords, etc 19 

THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 

The Old Mill 21 

Country Church 24 

The Widow and Her Son 29 

Tail-Piece 31 

THE BROKEN HEART. 

Wounded Dove 33 

Initial 33 

The Masquerade 39 

Border Medallion of Emmett 40 

THE WIFE. 

Love Guarding the Harp 41 

The Cottage 49 

Cupid and Rings 51 

A ROYAL POET. 

Windsor ^3 

Initial 53 

Round Tower, Windsor Castle 55 

Garden Scene, Windsor 63 

King James as a Prisoner 65 

Terrace View, Windsor Castle 71 

THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 

Interior of an English Country Church 73 

Coach of the Wealthy Citizen 77 

Tail-Piece 80 

5 



THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 

" May no wolfe howle ; no screech owle stir 
A wing about thy sepulchre ! 
No boysterous winds or stormes come hither, 
To starve or wither 
Thy soft sweet earth ! but, like a spring. 
Love kept it ever flourishing." 

Herrick. 



K the course of an excursion through 
one of the remote counties of England, 
I had struck into one of those cross- 
roads that lead through the more seclud- 
ed parts of the country, and stopped one 
afternoon at a village, the situation of 
which was beautifully rural and retired. 
There was an air of primitive simplicity 
about its inhabitants, not to be found in 
the villages which lie on the great coach- 
roads. I determined to pass the night 
there, and, having taken an early dinner, 
^ strolled out to enjoy the neighboring scenery. 
' My ramble, as is usually the case with travellers, soon led 
me to the church, which stood at a little distance from the 
village. Indeed, it was an object of some curiosity, its old 
tower being completely overrun with ivy, so that only here and 
there a jutting buttress, an angle of gray wall, or a fantastically 




THE SKETCH BOOK. 




carved ornament, peered tlirongh the verdant covering. It 
was a lovely evening. The early part of the day had been 
dark and showery, but in the afternoon it had cleared np ; and 
though sullen clouds still hung overhead, yet there was a 
broad tract of golden sky in the west, from which the setting 
sun gleamed through the dripping leaves, and lit up all nature 
with a melancholy smile. It seemed like the parting hour of a 
good Christian, smiling on the sins and sorrows of the world, 
and giving, in the serenity of his decline, an assurance that he 
will rise again in glory. 

I had seated myself on a half-sunken tombstone, and was 
musing, as one is apt to do at this sober-thoughted hour, on 
past scenes and early friends — on those who were distant and 
those who were dead — and indulging in that kind of melan- 
choly fancying, which has in it something sweeter even than 
pleasure. Every now and then, the stroke of a bell from 
the neighboring tower fell on my ear; its tones were in 



THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 9 

■unison with the scene, and, instead of jarring, chimed in with 
my feehngs ; and it was some time before I recollected that it 
must be tolling the knell of some new tenant of the tomb. 

Presently I saw a funeral train moving across the village 
green ; it wound slowly along a lane ; was lost, and reappeared 
through the breaks of the hedges, until it passed the place 
where I was sitting. The pall was supported by young girls, 
dressed in white; and another, about the age of seventeen, 
walked before, bearing a chaplet of white flowers — a token that 
the deceased was a young and unmanned female. The corpse 
was followed by the parents. They were a venerable couple 
of the better order of peasantry. The father seemed to repress 
his feelings; but his fixed eye, contracted brow,- and deeply 
furrowed face, showed the struggle that was passing within. 
His wife hung on his arm, and wept aloud with the convulsive 
bursts of a mother's sorrow. 

I followed the funeral into the church. The bier was placed 
in the centre aisle, and the chaplet of white flowers, with a pair 
of white gloves, was hung over the seat which the deceased 
had occupied. 

Every one knows the soul-subduing pathos of the funeral 
service ; for who is so fortunate as never to have followed some 
one he has loved to the tomb ? but when performed over the 
remains of innocence and beauty, thus laid low in the bloom 
of existence — what can be more affecting ? At that simple, but 
most solemn consignment of the body to the grave — " Earth to 
earth — ashes to ashes — dust to dust !" — the tears of the youth- 
ful companions of the deceased flowed unrestrained. The 
father still seemed to struggle with his feelings, and to comfort 
himself with the assurance, that the dead are blessed which die 
in the Lord; but the mother only thought of her child as a 



10 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

flower of the field cut down and withered in the midst of its 
sweetness; she was like Eachel, ''mourning over her children, 
and would not be comforted." 

On returning to the inn, I learned the whole story of the 
deceased. It was a simple one, and such as has often been 
told. She had been the beauty and pride of the village. Her 
father had once been an opulent farmer, but was reduced in 
circumstances. This w^as an only child, and brought up en- 
tirely at home, in the simplicity of rural life. She had been 
the pupil of the village pastor, the favorite lamb of his little 
flock. The good man watched over her education with pater- 
nal care ; it was limited, and suitable to the sphere in which she 
was to move ; for he only sought to make her an ornament to 
her station in life, not to raise her above it. The tenderness 
and indulgence of her parents, and the exemption from all 
ordinary occjipations, had fostered a natural grace and delicacy 
of character, that accorded with the fragile loveliness of her 
form. She appeared like some tender plant of the garden, 
blooming accidentally amid the hardier natives of the fields. 

The superiority of her charms was felt and acknowledged 
by her companions, but without envy ; for it was surpassed by 
the unassuming gentleness and winning kindness of her man- 
ners. It might be truly said of her : 

" This is the prettiest low-born lass, that ever 
Ean on the green-sward ; nothing she does or seems, 
But smacks of something greater than herself; 
Too noble for this place." 

The village was one of those sequestered spots, which still 
retain some vestiges of old English customs. It had its rural 
festivals and holiday pastimes, and still kept up some faint 
observance of the once popular rites of May. These, indeed, 



THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 11 

had been promoted by its present pastor, who was a lover of 
old customs, and one of those simple Christians that think their 
mission fulfilled by promoting joy on earth and good- will 
among mankind. Under his auspices the May-pole stood from 
year to year in the centre of the village green ; on May-day it 
was decorated with garlands and streamers ; and a queen or 
lady of the May was appointed, as in former times, to preside 
at the sports, and distribute the prizes and rewards. The 
picturesque situation of the village, and the fancifulness of its 
rustic fetes, would often attract the notice of casual visitors. 
Among these, on one May-day, was a young officer, whose 
regiment had been recently quartered in the neighborhood. 
He was charmed with the native taste that pervaded this 
village pageant; but, above all, with the dawning loveliness 
of the queen of May. It was the village favorite, who was 
crowned with flowers, and blushing and smiling in all the 
beautiful confusion of girlish diffidence and delight. The 
artlessness of rural habits enabled him readily to make her 
acquaintance ; he gradually won his way into her intimacy ; 
and paid his court to her in that unthinking way in which 
young officers are too apt to trifle with rustic simplicity. 

There was nothing in his advances to startle or alarm. He 
never even talked of love: but there are modes of making 
it more eloquent than language, and which convey it subtilely 
and irresistibly to the heart. The beam of the eye, the tone 
of voice, the thousand tendernesses which emanate from every 
word, and look, and action — these form the true eloquence 
of love, and can always be felt and understood, but never 
described. Can we w^onder that they should readily win a 
heart, young, guileless, and susceptible ? As to her, she loved 
almost unconsciously; she scarcely inquired what was the 



12 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

growing passion that was absorbing every thought and feeling, 
or what were to be its consequences. She, indeed, looked not 
to the future. When present, his looks and words occupied 
her whole attention; when absent, she thought but of what 
had passed at their recent interview. She would wander with 
him through the green lanes and rural scenes of the vicinity. 
He taught her to see new beauties in nature ; he talked in the 
language of polite and cultivated life, and breathed into her ear 
the witcheries of romance and poetry. 

Perhaps there could not have been a passion between the 
sexes more pure than this innocent girl's. The gallant figure 
of her youthful admirer, and the splendor of his military attire, 
might at first have charmed her eye; but it was not these 
that had captivated her heart. Her attachment had something 
in it of idolatry. She looked up to him as to a being of a 
superior order. She felt in his society the enthusiasm of a 
mind naturally delicate and poetical, and now first awakened 
to a keen perception of the beautiful and grand. Of the sordid 
distinctions of rank and fortune she thought nothing ; it was 
the difference of intellect, of demeanor, of manners, from those 
of the rustic society to which she had been accustomed, that 
elevated him in her opinion. She would listen to him with 
charmed ear and downcast look of mute delight, and her 
cheek would mantle with enthusiasm ; or, if ever she ventured 
a shy glance of timid admiration, it was as quickly withdrawn, 
and she would sigh and blush at the idea of her comparative 
unworthiness. 

Her lover was equally impassioned; but his passion was 
mingled with feelings of a coarser nature. He had begun the 
connection in levity; for he had often heard his brother 
officers boast of their village conquests, and thought some 



THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 13 

trinmpli of the kind necessary to his reputation as a man of 
spirit. But he was too full of youthful fervor. His heart had 
not yet been rendered sufficiently cold and selfish by a wander- 
ing and a dissipated life ; it caught fire from the very flame it 
sought to kindle ; and before he was aware of the nature of his 
situation, he became really in love. 

What was he to do? There were the old obstacles which 
so incessantly occur in these heedless attachments. His rank 
in life — the prejudices of titled connections — his dependence 
upon a proud and unyielding father — all forbade him to think 
of matrimony : — but when he looked down upon this innocent 
being, so tender and confiding, there was a purity in her man- 
ners, a blamelessness in her life, and a beseeching modesty in 
her looks that awed down every licentious feeling. In vain did 
he try to fortify himself by a thousand heartless examples 
of men of fashion ; and to chill the glow of generous sentiment 
with that cold derisive levity with which he had heard them 
talk of female virtue : whenever he came into her presence, she 
was still surrounded by that mysterious but impassive charm 
of virgin purity in whose hallowed sphere no guilty thought 
can live. 

The sudden arrival of orders for the regiment to repair to 
the continent completed the confusion of his mind. He re- 
mained for a short time in a state of the most painful irresolu- 
tion ; he hesitated to communicate the tidings, until the day for 
marching was at hand ; when he gave her the intelligence in the 
course of an evening ramble. 

The idea of parting had never before occurred to her. It 
broke in at once upon her dream of felicity ; she looked upon 
it as a sudden and insurmountable evil, and wept with the 
guileless simplicity of a child. He drew her to his bosom, and 



14 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

kissed the tears from her soft cheek ; nor did he meet with 
a repulse, for there are moments of mingled sorrow and tender- 
ness which hallow the caresses of affection. He was naturally 
impetuous ; and the sight of beauty apparently yielding in his 
arms, the confidence of his power over her, and the dread of 
losing her forever, all conspired to overwhelm his better 
feelings — he ventured to propose that she should leave her 
home, and be the companion of his fortunes. 

He was quite a novice in seduction, and blushed and faltered 
at his own baseness ; but so innocent of mind was his intended 
victim, that she was at first at a loss to comprehend his 
meaning ; and why she should leave her native village, and the 
humble roof of her parents. When at last the nature of his 
proposal flashed upon her pure mind, the effect was withering. 
She did not weep — she did not break forth into reproach — she 
said not a word — but she shrunk back aghast as from a viper; 
gave him a look of anguish that pierced to his very soul ; and, 
clasping her hands in agony, fled, as if for refuge, to her father's 
cottage. 

The officer retired, confounded, humiliated, and repentant. 
It is uncertain what might have been the result of the conflict 
of his feelings, had not his thoughts been diverted by the 
bustle of departure. New scenes, new pleasures, and new 
companions, soon dissipated his self-reproach, and stifled his 
tenderness ; yet, amidst the stir of camps, the revelries of 
garrisons, the array of armies, and even the din of battles, his 
thoughts would sometimes steal back to the scenes of rural 
quiet and village simplicity — the white cottage — the footpath 
along the silver brook and up the hawthorn hedge, and the 
little village maid loitering along it, leaning on his arm, and 
listening to him with eyes beaming with unconscious affection. 



THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 15 

The shock which the poor girl had received, in the destruc- 
tion of all her ideal world, had indeed been cruel. Faintings 
and hysterics had at first shaken her tender frame, and were 
succeeded by a settled and pining melancholy. She had 
beheld from her window the march of the departing troops. 
She had seen her faithless lover borne off, as if in triumph, 
amidst the sound of .drum and trumpet, and the pomp of arms. 
She strained a last aching gaze after him, as the morning sun 
glittered about his figure, and his plume waved in the breeze ; 
he passed away like a bright vision from her sight, and left her 
all in darkness. 

It would be trite to dwell on the particulars of her after 
story. It was, like other tales of love, melancholy. She 
avoided society, and wandered out alone in the walks she had 
most frequented with her lover. She sought, like the stricken 
deer, to weep in silence and loneliness, and brood over the 
barbed sorrow that rankled in her soul. Sometimes she would 
be seen late of an evening sitting in the porch of the village 
church; and the milkmaids, returning from the fields, would 
now and then overhear her singing some plaintive ditty in the 
hawthorn walk. She became fervent in her devotions at 
church; and as the old people saw her approach, so wasted 
away, yet with a hectic gloom, and that hallowed air which 
melancholy diffuses round the form, they would make way for 
her, as for something spiritual, and, looking after her, would 
shake their heads in gloomy foreboding. 

She felt a conviction that she was hastening to the tomb, but 
looked forward to it as a place of rest. The silver cord that 
had bound her to existence was loosed, and there seemed to be 
no more pleasure under the sun. If ever her gentle bosom had 
entertained resentment against her lover, it was extinguished. 



16 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

She was incapable of angry passions; and in a moment of 
saddened tenderness, she penned him a farewell letter. It was 
couched in the simplest language, but touching from its very 
simplicity. She told him that she was dying, and did not 
conceal from him that his conduct was the cause. She even 
depicted the sufferings which she had experienced; but con- 
cluded with saying, that she could not di.e in peace until she 
had sent him her forgiveness and her blessing. 

By degrees her strength so declined, that she could no longer 
leave the cottage. She could only totter to the window, where, 
propped up in her chair, it was her enjoyment to sit all day and 
look out upon the landscape. Still she uttered no complaint, 
nor imparted to any one the malady that was preying on 
her heart. She never even mentioned her lover's name ; but 
would lay her head on her mother's bosom and weep in silence. 
Her poor parents hung in mute anxiety over this fading blos- 
som of their hopes, still flattering themselves that it might again 
revive to freshness, and that the bright unearthly bloom which 
sometimes flushed her cheek might be the promise of returning 
health. 

In this way she was seated between them one Sunday after- 
noon ; her hands were clasped in theirs, the lattice was thrown 
open, and the soft air that stole in brought with it the fragrance 
of the clustering honeysuckle which her own hands had trained 
round the window. 

Her father had just been reading a chapter in the Bible: 
it spoke of the vanity of worldly things, and of the joys of 
heaven : it seemed to have diffused comfort and serenity through 
her bosom. Her eye was fixed on the distant village church ; 
the bell had tolled for the evening service ; the last villager was 
lagging into the porch ; and every thing had sunk into that 



THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 



17 




hallowed stillness peculiar to the day of rest. Her parents were 
gazing on her with yearning hearts. Sickness and sorrow, 
which pass so roi^ghly over some faces, had given to hers the 
expression of a seraph's. A tear trembled in her soft blue 
eye. — Was she thinking of her faithless lover? — or were her 
thoughts wandering to that distant churchyard, into whose 
bosom she might soon be gathered? 



18 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

Suddenly the clang of hoofs was heard — a horseman gal- 
loped to the cottage — he dismounted before the window — 
the poor girl gave a faint exclamation, and sunk back in 
her chair: it was her repentant lover! He rushed into 
the house, and flew to clasp her to his bosom; but her 
wasted form — her deathlike countenance — so wan, jet so 
lovely in its desolation, — smote him to the soul, and he 
threw himself in agony at her feet. She was too faint to 
rise — she attempted to extend her trembling hand — her lips 
moved as if she spoke, but no word was articulated — she 
looked down upon him with a smile of unutterable tender 
ness, — and closed her eyes forever ! 

Such are the particulars which I gathei'ed of this village 
story. They are but scanty, and I am conscious have little 
novelty to i-ecommend them. In the present rage also for 
strange incident and high-seasoned narrative, they may appear 
trite and insignificant, but they interested me strongly at the 
time ; and, taken in connection with the affecting ceremony 
which I had just witnessed, left a deeper impression on my 
mind than many circumstances of a more striking nature- 
I have passed through the j^lace since, and visited the church 
again, from a better motive than mere curiosity. It was a 
wintry evening ; the trees were stripped of their foliage ; the 
churchyard looked naked and mournful, and the wind rustled 
coldly through the dry grass. Evergreens, however, had been 
planted about the grave of the village favorite, and osiers were 
bent over it to keep the turf uninjured. 

The church door was open, and I stepped in. There hung 
the chaplet of flowers and the gloves, as on the day of the 
funeral ; the flowers were withered, it is true, but care seemed 
to have been taken that no dust should soil their whiteness. 



THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 



19 



I have seen many monuments, where art has exhausted its 
powers to awaken the sympathy of the spectator, but I have 
met with none that spoke more touchingly to my heart, than 
this simple but delicate memento of departed innocence. 





THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 



Pittie olde age, within whose silver haires 
Honour and reverence evermore have rain'd." 

Marlowe's Tamburlaine, 

HOSE who are in the habit of remarking 
such matters, must have noticed the pas- 
sive quiet of an English landscape on 
Sunday. The clacking of the mill, the 
regularly recurring stroke of the flail, the 
din of the blacksmith's hammer, the whis- 
tling of the ploughman, the rattling of 
the cart, and all other sounds of rural labor, are suspended. 
The very farm-dogs bark less frequently, being less disturbed 
by passing travellers. At such times I have almost fancied the 

21 




22 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



winds sunk into quiet, and that the sunny landscape, with its 
fresh green tints melting into blue haze, enjoyed the hallowed 
calm. 

" Sweet day, so pure, so calm, so bright. 
The bridal of the earth and sky." 

Well was it ordained that the day of devotion should be a day 
of rest. The holy repose which reigns over the face of nature, 
has its moral influence ; every restless passion is charmed down, 
and we feel the natural religion of the soul gently springing up 
within us. For my part, there are feelings that visit me, in a 
country church, amid the beautiful serenity of nature, which I 
experience nowhere else ; and, if not a more religious, I think 
I am a better man on Sunday than on any other day of the 
seven. 

During my recent residence in the country, I used frequently 
to attend at the old village church. Its shadowy aisles ; its 
mouldering monuments ; its dark oaken panelling, all reverend 
with the gloom of departed years, seemed to fit it for the haunt 
of solemn meditation : but being in a wealth}^, aristocratic neigh- 
borhood, the glitter of fashion penetrated even into the sanctu- 
ary ; and I felt myself continually thrown back upon the world 
by the frigidity and pomp of the poor worms around me. The 
only being in the whole congregation who appeared thoroughly 
to feel the humble and prostrate piety of a true Christian was a 
poor, decrepit old w^oman, bending under the weight of years 
and infirmities. She bore the traces of something better than 
abject poverty. The lingerings of decent pride were visible 
in her appearance. Her dress, though humble in the extreme, 
was scrupulously clean. Some trivial respect, too, had been 
awarded her, for she did not take her seat among the village 
poor, but sat alone on the steps of the altar. She seemed to 



THE WIDOW AND HEK SON. 23 

have survived all love, all friendship, all society ; and to have 
nothing left her bnt the hopes of heaven. When I saw her 
feebly rising and bending her aged form in prayer ; habitually 
conning her prayer-book, which her palsied hand and failing 
eyes would not permit her to read, but which she evidently 
knew by heart ; I felt persuaded that the faltering voice of that 
poor woman arose to heaven far before the responses of the 
clerk, the swell of the organ, or the chanting of the choir. 

I am fond of loitering about country churches, and this was 
so delightfully situated, that it frequently attracted me. It 
stood on a knoll, round which a small stream made a beautiful 
bend, and then wound its way through a long reach of soft 
meadow scenery. The church was surrounded by 3'ew-trees 
which seemed almost coeval with itself Its tall Gothic spire 
shot up lightly from among them, with rooks and crows gen- 
erally wheeling about it. I was seated there one still, sunny 
morning, watching two laborers who were digging a grave. 
They had chosen one of the most remote and neglected corners 
of the churchyard ; where, from the number of nameless graves 
around, it would appear that the indigent and friendless were 
huddled into the earth. I was told that the new-made grave 
was for the only son of a poor widow. While I was meditating 
on the distinctions of worldly rank, which extend thus down 
into the very dust, the toll of the bell announced the approach 
of the funeral. They were the obsequies of poverty, with which 
pride had nothing to do. A coffin of the plainest materials, 
without pall or other covering, was borne by some of the villa- 
gers. The sexton walked before with an air of cold indifference. 
There were no mock mourners in the trappings of affected woe; 
but there was one real mourner who feebly tottered after the 
corpse. It was the aged mother of the deceased — the poor old 



24 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 




woman whom I had seen seated on the steps of the altar. She 
was supported by a humble friend, who was endeavoring to 
comfort her. A few of the neighboring poor had joined the 
train, and some children of the village were running hand in 
hand, now shouting with unthinking mirth, and now pausing to 
gaze, with, childish curiosity, on the grief of the mourner. 

As the funeral train approached the grave, the parson issued 
from the church porch, arrayed in the surplice, with prayer-book 



THE WIDOW AND HER SON. . 25 

in luinci, and attended by the clerk. The service, however, was 
a mere act of charity. The deceased had been destitute, and 
the survivor was penniless. It was shuffled through, therefore, 
in form, but coldly and unfeelingly. The well-fed priest moved 
but a few steps from the church door ; his voice could scarcely 
be heard at the grave ; and nei^er did I hear the funeral service, 
that sublime and touching ceremonj^, turned into such a frigid 
mummery of words. 

I approached the grave. The coffin was placed on the ground. 
On it were inscribed the name and age of the deceased — " George 
Somers, aged 26 years." The poor mother had been assisted to 
kneel down at the head of it. Her withered hands were clasped, 
as if in prayer ; but I could perceive, by a feeble rocking of the 
body, and a convulsive motion of her lips, that she was gazing 
on the last relics of her son, with the yearnings of a mother's 
heart. 

Preparations were made to deposit the coffin in the earth. 
There was that bustling stir which breaks so harshly on the 
feelings of grief and affection ; directions given in the cold tones 
of business ; the striking of spades into sand and gravel ; which, 
at the grave of those we love, is, of all sounds, the most wither- 
ing. The bustle around seemed to waken the mother from a 
wretched reverie. She raised her glazed eyes, and looked about 
with a faint wildness. As the men approached with cords to 
lower the coffin into the grave, she wrung her hands, and broke 
into an agony of grief. The poor woman who attended her 
took her by the arm, endeavoring to raise her from the earth, 
and to whisper something like consolation : " Nay, now — nay, 
now — don't take it so sorely to heart." She could only shake 
her head and wring her hands, as one not to be comforted. 

As they lowered the body into the earth, the creaking of the 



26 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



cords seemed to agonize her ; but when, on some accidental ob- 
struction, there was a justling of the coffin, all the tenderness of 
the mother burst forth ; as if any harm could come to him who 
was far beyond the reach of worldly suffering. 

I could see no more — my heart swelled into my throat — my 
eyes filled with tears — I felt as if I were acting a barbarous pai't 
in standing by, and gazing idly on this scene of maternal an- 
guish. I wandered to another part of the churchyard, where I 
remained until the funeral train had dispersed. 

When I saw the mother slowly and painfully quitting the 
grave, leaving behind her the remains of all that was dear to 
her on earth, and returning to silence and destitution, my heart 
ached for her. What, thought I, are the distresses of the rich ! 
they have friends to soothe — pleasures to beguile — a world to 
divert and dissipate their griefs. What are the sorrows of the 
young! Their growing minds soon close above the wound — 
their elastic spirits soon rise beneath the pressure — their green 
and ductile affections soon, twine round new objects. But the 
sorrows of the poor, who have no outward appliances to soothe 
— the sorrows of the aged, with whom life at best is but a win- 
try da}^ and who can look for no after-growth of joy — the 
sorrows of a widow, aged, solitary, destitute, mourning over an 
only son, the last solace of her years ; these are indeed sorrows 
which make us feel the impotency of consolation. 

It was some time before I left the churchyard. On my way 
homeward I met with the woman who had acted as comforter : 
she was just returning from accompanying the mother to her 
lonely habitation, and I drew from her some particulars con- 
nected with the affecting scene I had witnessed. 

The parents of the deceased had resided in the village from 
childhood They had inhabited one of the neatest cottages, and 



THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 27 

by various rural occupations, and the assistance of a small gar- 
den, had supported themselves creditably and comfortably, and 
led a happy and a blameless life. They had one son, who had 
grownup to be the staff and pride of their age. — "Oh, sir!" said 
the good woman, "he was such a comely lad, so sweet-tempered, 
so kind to every one around him, so dutiful to his parents ! It 
did one's heart good to see him of a Sunday, dressed out in his 
best, so tall, so straight, so cheery, supporting his old mother to 
church — for she was always fonder of leaning on George's arm 
than on her good man's ; and, poor soul, she might well be proud 
of him, for a finer lad there was not in the country round." 

Unfortunately, the son was tempted, during a year of scarcity 
and agricultural hardship, to enter into the service of one of the 
small craft that plied on a neighboring river. He had not been 
long in this employ when he was entrapped by a press-gang, 
and carried off to sea. His parents received tidings of his 
seizure, but beyond that they could learn nothing. It was the 
loss of their main prop. The father, who was already infirm, 
grew heartless and melancholy, and sunk into his grave. The 
widow, left lonely in her age and feebleness, could no longer 
support herself, and came upon the parish. Still there was a 
kind feeling toward her throughout the village, and a certain 
respect as being one of the oldest inhabitants. As no one ap- 
plied for the cottage, in which, she had passed so many happy 
days, she was permitted to remain in it, where she lived solitary 
and almost helpless. The few wants of nature were chiefly 
supplied from the scanty productions of her little garden, which 
the neighbors would now and then cultivate for her. It was 
but a few days before the time at which these circumstances 
were told me, that she was gathering some vegetables for her 
repast, when she heard the cottage door which faced the garden 



28 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



suddenly opened. A stranger came out, and seemed to be look- 
ing eagerly and wildly around. He was dressed in seaman's 
clothes, was emaciated and ghastly pale, and bore the air of one 
broken by sickness and hardships. He saw her, and hastened 
toward her, but his steps were faint and faltering ; he sank on 
his knees before her, and sobbed like a child. The poor woman 
gazed upon him with a vacant and wandering eye — "Oh, my 
dear, dear mother ! don't you know jouv son ? your poor boy, 
George?" It was indeed the wreck of her once noble lad, who, 
shattered by wounds, by sickness and foreign imprisonment, 
had, at length, dragged his wasted limbs homeward, to repose 
among the scenes of his childhood. 

I will not attempt to detail the particulars of such a meeting, 
where joy and sorrow were so completely blended : still he was 
alive ! he was come home ! he might jet live to comfort and 
cherish her old age ! Nature, however, was exhausted in him ; 
and if any thing had been wanting to finish the work of fate, 
the desolation of his native cottage would have been sufficient. 
He stretched himself on the pallet on which his widowed mother 
had passed many a sleepless night, and he never rose from it 
again. 

The villagers, when they heard that Greorge Somers had re- 
turned, crowded to see him, offering every comfort and assistance 
that their humble means afforded. He was too weak, however, 
to talk — he could only look his thanks. His mother was his 
constant attendant ; and lie seemed unwilling to be helped by 
any other hand, 

Tliere is something in sickness that breaks down the pride 
of manhood ; that softens the heart, and brings it back to the 
feelings of infancy. Who that has languished, even in advanced 
life, in sickness and despondency ; who that has pined on a weary 



THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 



29 




bed in the neglect and loneliness of a foreign land ; but has 
thought on the mother "that looked on his childhood," that 
smoothed his pillow, and administered to his helplessness ? 
Oh ! there is an enduring tenderness in the love of a mother to 
her son that transcends all other affections of the heart. It is 
neither to be chilled bj selfishness, nor daunted by danger, nor 
weakened by worthlessness, nor stifled by ingratitude. She will 
sacrifice every comfort to his convenience ; she will surrender 
every pleasure to his enjoyment; she will glory in his fame, and 
exult in his prosperity : — and, if misfortune overtake him, he 
will be the dearer to her from misfortune ; and if disgrace settle 
upon his name, she will still love and cherish him in spite of his 
disgrace ; and if all the world beside cast him off, she will be all 
the world to him. 

Poor Greorge Somers had known what it was to be in sick- 



2Q THE SKETCH BOOK. 

ness, and none to soothe— lonely and in prison, and none to 
visit him. He could not endure his 'mother from his sight ; if 
she moved away, his eye would follow her. She would sit for 
hours by his bed, watching him as he slept. Sometimes he 
would start from a feverish dream, and look anxiously up until 
he saw her bending over him ; when he would take her hand, 
lay it on his bosom, and fall asleep, with the tranquillity of a 
child. In this way he died. 

My first impulse, on hearing this humble tale of affliction, was 
to visit the cottage of the mourner, and administer pecuniaiy 
assistance, and, if possible, comfort. I found, however, on in- 
quiry, that the good feelings of the villagers had prompted them 
to do every thing that the case admitted : and as the poor know 
best how to console each other's sorrows, I did not venture to 
intrude. 

The next Sunday I was at the village church ; when, to my 
surprise, I saw the poor old woman tottering down the aisle to 
her accustomed seat on the steps of the altar. 

She had made an effort to put on something like mourning 
for her son; and nothing could be more touching than this 
struggle between pious affection and utter poverty : a black 
ribbon or so — a faded black handkerchief, and one or two more 
such humble attempts to express by outward signs that grief 
which passes show. When I looked round upon the storied 
monuments, the stately hatchments, the cold marble pomp, with 
which grandeur mourned magnificently over departed pride, and 
turned to this poor widow, bowed down by age and sorrow, at 
the altar of her God, and offering up the prayers and praises of 
a pious though a broken heart, I felt that this living monument 
of real grief was worth them all. 

I related her story to some of the wealthy members of the 



THE WIDOW AND HEE SON. 



31 



congregation, and they were moved by it. They exerted them- 
selves to render her situation more comfortable, and to lighten 
her afflictions. It was, however, but smoothing a few steps to 
the grave. In the course of a Sunday or two after, she was 
missed from her usual seat at church; and before I left the 
neighborhood, I heard, with a feeling of satisfaction, that she 
had quietly breathed her last, and had gone to rejoin those sne 
loved, in that world where sorrow is never known, and friends 
are never parted. 





THE BROKEN HEART. 



I never heard 
Of any true affection, but 'twas nipt 
With care, that, hke the caterpillar, eats 
The leaves of the spring's sweetest book, the rose. 

MlDDLETON. 

T is a coramon practice with those who have outlived 
the susceptibility of early feeling, or have been 
brought up in the gay heartlessness of dissipa- 
ted life, to laugh at all love stories, and to treat 
the tales of romantic passion as mere fictions 
of novelists and poets. My observations on 
human nature have induced me to think other- 
wise. They liave convinced me, that however 
the surface of the character may be chilled and frozen by the 
cares of the world, or cultivated into mere smiles by the arts 
of society, still there are dormant fires lurking in the depths of 

33 




34 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

the coldest bosom, which, when once enkindled, become impet- 
uous, and are sometimes desolating in their effects. Indeed, I 
am a true believer in the blind deit}^, and go to the full ex- 
tent of his doctrines. Shall I confess it ? — I believe in broken 
hearts, and the possibility of dying of disappointed love. I 
do not, however, consider it a malady often fatal to my own 
sex ; but I firmly believe that it withers down many a lovely 
woman into an early grave. 

Man is the creature of interest and ambition. His nature 
leads him forth into the struggle and bustle of the world. Love 
is but the embellishment of his early life, or a song piped in 
the intervals of the acts. He seeks for fame, for fortune, for 
space in the world's thought, and dominion over his fellow-men. 
But a woman's wdiole life is a history of the affections. The 
heart is her world : it is there her ambition strives for empii-e ; 
it is there her avarice seeks for hidden treasures. She sends 
forth her sympathies on adventure ; she embarks her whole soul 
in the traffic of affection ; and if shipwrecked, her case is hope- 
less — for it is a bankruptcy of the heart. 

To a man the disappointment of love may occasion some 
bitter pangs : it wounds some feelings of tenderness — it blasts 
some prospects of felicity ; but he is an active being — he may 
dissipate his thoughts in the whirl of varied occupation, or 
may plunge into the tide of pleasure ; or, if the scene of dis- 
appointment be too full of painful associations, he can shift his 
abode at will, and taking as it were the wings of the morning, 
can "fly to the uttermost parts of the earth, and be at rest."' 

But woman's is comparatively a fixed, a secluded, and medi- 
tative life. She is more the companion of her owm thoughts 
and feelings; and if they are turned to ministers of sorrow, 
where shall she look fin* consolation ? Her lot is to be w^ooed 



THE BROKEN HEART. 35 

•and won; and if unhappy in her love, her heart is like some 
fortress that has been captured, and sacked, and abandoned, and 
left desolate. 

How many bright eyes grow dim — how many soft cheeks 
grow pale — how many lovely forms fade away into the tomb, 
and none can tell the cause that blighted their loveliness! As 
the dove will clasp. its wings to its side, and cover and conceal 
the arrow that is preying on its vitals, so is it the nature of 
woman to hide from the world the pangs of wounded affection. 
The love of a delicate female is always shy and silent. Even 
when fortunate, she scarcely breathes it to. herself; but when 
otherwise, she buries it in the recesses of her bosom, and there 
lets it cower and brood among the ruins of her peace. With 
her the desire of the heart has failed. The great charm of 
•existence is at an end. She neglects all the cheerful exercises 
which gladden the spirits, quicken the pulses, and send the tide 
of life in healthful currents through the veins. Her rest is 
broken — ^the sweet refreshment of sleep is poisoned by melan- 
choly dreams — "dry sorrow drinks her blood," until her en- 
feebled frame sinks under the slightest external injury. Look 
for her, after a little while, and you find friendship weeping 
over her untimely grave, and wondering that one, who but late- 
ly glowed with all the radiance of health and beauty, should 
so speedily be brought down to "darkness and the worm." 
You will be told of some wintry chill, some casual indisposi- 
tion, that laid her low; — but no one knows of the mental 
malady w^hich previously sapped her strength, and made her so 
easy a prey to the spoiler. 

She is like some tender tree, the pride and beauty of the 
grove; graceful in its form, bright in its foliage, but with the 
worm preying at its heart. We find it suddenly withering, 
"when it should be most fresh and luxuriant. We see it droop- 



36 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

ing its branches to the earth, and shedding leaf by leaf, until, 
wasted and perished away, it falls even in the stillness of the 
forest; and as we muse over the beautiful ruin, we strive in 
vain to recollect the blast or thunderbolt that could have 
smitten it with decay. 

I have seen many instances of women running to waste 
and self-neglect, and disappearing gradually from the earth, 
almost as if they had been exhaled to heaven ; and have 
repeatedly fancied that I could trace their death through the 
various declensions of consumption, cold, debility, languor, 
melancholy, until I reached the first symptom of disappoint- 
ed love. But an instance of the kind was lately told to me; 
the circumstances are well known in the country where they 
happened, and I shall but give them in the manner in which 
they were related. 

Every one must recollect the tragical story of young "E , 

the Irish patriot; it was too touching to be soon forgotten. 
During the troubles in Ireland, he was tried, condemned, and 
executed, on a charge of treason. His fate made a deep im- 
pression on public sympathy. He was so young — so intelli- 
gent — so generous — so brave — so every thing that we are apt 
to like in a young man. His conduct under trial, too, was so 
lofty and inti-epid. The noble indignation with which he re- 
pelled the charge of treason against his country — the eloquent 
vindication of his name — and his pathetic appeal to posterity, 
in the hopeless hour of condemnation — all these entered deep- 
ly into every generous bosom, and even his enemies lamented 
the stern policy that dictated his execution, ' 

But there was one heart, whose anguish it would be impossi- 
ble to describe. In happier days and fairer fortunes, he had 
won the affections of a beautiful and interesting girl, the 
daughter of a late celebrated Irish barrister. She loved him 



THE BROKEN HEART. 37 

with the disinterested fervor of a woman's first and early love. 
When every worldly maxim arrayed itself against him ; when 
blasted in fortune, and disgrace and danger darkened around 
his name, she loved him the more ardently for his very suffer- 
ings. If, then, his fate could awaken the sympathy even of 
his foes, what must have been the agony of her, whose whole 
soul was occupied by his image ? Let those tell who have had 
the portals of the tomb suddenly closed between them and 
the being they most loved on earth — who have sat at its 
threshold, as one shut out in a cold and lonely world, whence 
all that was most lovely and loving had departed. 

But then the horrors of such a grave ! so frightful, so dis- 
honored ! there was nothing for memory to dwell on that could 
soothe the pang of separation — none of those tender though mel- 
ancholy circumstances, which endear the parting scene — nothing 
to melt sorrow into those blessed tears, sent like the dews of 
heaven, to revive the heart in the parting hour of anguish. 

To render her widowed situation more desolate, she had in- 
curred her father's displeasure by her unfortunate attachment, 
and was an exile from the paternal roof But could the sym- 
pathy and kind offices of friends have reached a spirit so 
shocked and driven in by horror, she would have experienced 
no want of consolation, for the Irish are a people of quick and 
generous sensibilities. The most delicate and cherishing atten- 
tions were paid her by families of wealth and distinction. She 
was led into society, and they tried by all kinds of occupation 
and amusement to dissipate her grief, and wean her from the 
tragical story of her loves. But it was all in vain. There are 
some strokes of calamity which scathe and scorch the soul — 
which penetrate to the vital seat of happiness — and blast it, 
never again to put forth bud or blossom. She never objected 
to frequent the haunts of pleasure, but was as much alone there 



38 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

as ill tlie depths of solitude ; walking about in a sad reverie, 
apparently unconscious of the world around her. She carried 
with her an inward woe that mocked at all the blandishments 
of friendship, and '' heeded not the song of the charmer, charm 
he never so wisely." 

The person who told me her story had seen her at a mas- 
querade. There can be no exhibition of far-gone wretchedness 
moi-e striking and painful than to meet it in such a scene. To 
find it wandering like a sjoectre, lonely and joyless, where all 
around is gay — to see it dressed out in the trappings of mirth, 
and looking so wan and woebegone, as if it had tried in vain to 
cheat the poor heart into a momentary forgetfulness of sorrow. 
After strolling through the splendid rooms and giddy crowd 
with an air. of utter abstraction, she sat herself down on the 
steps of an orchestra, and, looking about for some time with a 
vacant air, that showed her insensibility to the garish scene, she 
began, with the capriciousness of a sickly heart, to warble a 
little plaintive air. She had an exquisite voice; but on this 
occasion it was so simple, so touching, it breathed forth such 
a soul of wretchedness, that she drew a crowd mute and silent 
around her, and melted every one into tears. 

The story of one so true and tender could not but excite 
great interest in a countrv remarkable for enthusiasm. It com- 
pletely won the heart of a brave officer, who paid his addresses 
to her, and thought that one so true to the dead could not but 
prove affectionate to the living. She declined his attentions, 
for her thoughts were irrevocably engrossed by the memory of 
her former lover. He, however, persisted in his suit. He so- 
licited not her tenderness, but her esteem. He was assisted by 
her conviction of his worth, and her sense of her own destitute 
and dependent situation, for she was existing on the kindness 



THE BROKEN HEART. 



39 



'%vAl?^ 




of friends. In a word, he at length succeeded in gaining her 
hand, though with the solemn assurance that her heart was un- 
alterably another's. 

He took her with him to Sicily, hoping that a change of 
scene might wear out the remembrance of early woes. She 
was an amiable and exemplary wife, and made an effort to be a 
happy one ; but nothing could cure the silent and devouring 
melancholy that had entered into her very soul. She wasted 
away in a slow, but hopeless decline, and at length sunk into 
the grave, the victim of a broken heart. 

It was on her that Moore, the distinguished Irish poet, com- 
posed the following lines : 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 





She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, 

And lovers around her are sighing ; 
But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, 

For her heart in his grave is lying. 

She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains, 
Every note which he loved awaking — 

Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains, 
How the heart of the minstrel is breaking I 



m 



He had lived for his love — for his country he died, 
They were all that to life had entwined him — 

Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, 
Nor long will his love stay behind him ! 



Oh ! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest, 
When they promise a glorious morrow ; 

They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the west, 
From her own loved island of sorrow ! 





THE WIFE. 



" The treasures of the deep are not so precious 
As are the conceard comforts of a man 
Locked up in woman's love. I scent the air 
Of blessings, when I come but near the house. 
What a delicious breath marriage sends forth — 
The violet bed's not sweeter." 

MiDDLETON. 



r HAVE often had occasion to remark tlie fortitude with which 
X women sustain the most overwhelming reverses of fortune. 
Those disasters which break down the spirit of a man, and 
prostrate him in the dust, seem to call forth all the energies of 
the softer sex, and give such intrepidity and elevation to their 
character, that at times it approaches to sublimity. Nothing 

41 



42 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



can be more toucliing than to behold a soft and tender female 
who had been all weakness and dependence, and alive to every 
trivial roughness, while treading the prosperous paths of life, 
suddenly rising in mental force to be the comforter and support 
of her husband under misfortune, and abiding, with unshrinking 
firmness, the bitterest blasts of adversity 

As the vine, which has long twined its graceful foliage about 
the oak, and been lifted by it into sunshine, will, when the 
hardy plant is rifted by the thunderbolt, cling round it with its 
caressing tendrils, and bind up its shattered boughs ; so is it 
beautifully ordered by Providence, that woman, who is the 
mere dependent and ornament of man in his happier hours, 
should be his stay and solace when smitten with sudden calam- 
ity ; winding herself into the rugged recesses of his nature, ten- 
derly supporting the drooping head, and binding up the broken 
heart. 

I was once congratulating a friend, who had around him a 
blooming family, knit together in the strongest affection. "I 
can wish you no better lo^,'' said he, with enthusiasm, "than to 
have a wife and children. If 3'ou are prosperous, there they are 
to share your prosperity , if otherwise, there they are to comfort 
you." And, indeed, I have observed that a married man falling 
into misfortune is more apt to retrieve his situation in the world 
than a single one ; partly because he is more stimulated to ex- 
ertion by the necessities of the helpless and beloved beings who 
depend upon him for subsistence : but chiefly because his spirits 
are soothed and relieved by domestic endearments, and his self- 
respect kept alive by finding, that though all abroad is darkness 
and humiliation, yet there is still a little world of love at home, 
of which he is the monarch. Whereas a single man is apt to 
run to waste and self-neglect ; to fancy himself lonely and aban- 



THE WIFE. 43 

doned, and his heart to fall to ruin like some deserted mansion, 
for want of an inhabitant. 

These observations call to mind a little domestic story, of 
which I was once a witness. My intimate friend, Leslie, had 
married a beautiful and accomplished girl, who had been 
brought up in the midst of fashionable life. She had, it is true, 
no fortune, but that of my friend was ample ; and he delighted 
in the anticipation of indulging her in every elegant pursuit, 
and administering to those delicate tastes and fancies that 
spread a kind of witchery about the sex. "Her life," said he, 
" shall be like a fairy tale." 

The very difference in their characters produced an harmo- 
nious combination : he was of a romantic and somewhat serious 
cast ; she was all life and gladness. I have often noticed the 
mute rapture with which he would gaze upon her in company, 
of which her sprightly powers made her the delight ; and how, 
in the midst of applause, her eye would still turn to him, as if 
there alone she sought fiivor and acceptance. When leaning on 
his arm, her slender form contrasted finely with his tall manly 
person. The fond confiding air with which she looked up to 
him seemed to call forth a flush of triumphant pride and cher- 
ishing tenderness, as if he doted on his lovely burden for its very 
helplessness. Never did a couple set forward on the flowery 
path of early and well-suited marriage with a fairer prospect of 
felicity. 

It was the misfortune of my friend, however, to have embark- 
ed his property in large speculations ; and he had not been mar- 
ried many months, when, by a succession of sudden disasters, 
it was swept from him, and he found himself reduced almost 
to penury. For a time he kept his situation to himself, and 
went about with a haggard countenance, and a breaking heart. 



44 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

His life was but a protracted agony ; and what rendered it more 
insupportable was the necessity of keeping up a smile in the 
presence of his wife ; for he could not bring himself to over- 
whelm her with the news. She saw, however, with the quick 
eyes of affection, that all was not well with him. She marked 
his altered looks and stifled sighs, and was not to be deceived 
by his sickly and vapid attempts at cheerfulness. She tasked 
all her sprightly powers and tender blandishments to win hin? 
back to happiness ; but she only drove the arrow deeper into 
his soul. The more he saw cause to love her, the more tortur- 
ing was the thought that he was soon to make her wretched. 
A little while, thought he, and the smile will vanish from that 
cheek — the song will die away from those lips — the lustre of 
those eyes will be quenched with sorrow ; and the happy heart, 
which now beats lightly in that bosom, will be weighed down 
like mine, by the cares and miseries of the world. 

At length he came to me one day, and related his whole sit- 
uation in a tone of the deepest despair. When I heard him 
through I inquired, "Does your wife know all this?'' At the 
question he burst into an agony of tears. "For God's sake!" 
cried he, " if you have any pity on me, don't mention my wife ; 
it is the thought of her that drives me almost to madness !" 

" And why not ?" said I. " She must know it sooner or later : 
you cannot keep it long from her, and the intelligence may 
break upon her in a more startling manner than if imparted by 
yourself; for the accents of those we love soften the harshest 
tidings. Besides, you are depriving yourself of the comforts 
of her sympathy ; and not merely that, but also endangering the 
only bond that can keep hearts together — an unreserved com- 
munity of thought and feeling. She will soon perceive that 
something is secretly preying upon your mind; and true love 



THE WIFE. 45 

will not brook reserve ; it feels undervalued and outraged^ when 
even the sorrows of those it loves are concealed from it." 

"Oh, but, mj friend ! to think what a blow I am to give to 
all her future prospects — how I am to strike her yerj soul to 
the earth, by telling her that her husband is a beggar ! that she 
is to forego all the elegancies of life — all the pleasures of so- 
ciety — to shrink with me into indigence and obscurity ! To 
tell her that I have dragged her down from the sphere in which 
she might have continued to move in constant brightness — the 
light of every eye — the admiration of every heart ! How can 
she bear poverty? she has been brought up in all the refine- 
ments of opulence. How can she bear neglect? she has been 
the idol of society. Oh ! it will break her heart — it will break 
her heart !" 

I saw his grief was eloquent, and I let it have its flow ; for 
sorrow relieves itself by words. When his paroxysm had sub- 
sided, and he had relapsed into moody silence, I resumed 
the subject gently, and urged him to break his situation at 
once to his wife. He shook his head mournfully, but posi- 
tively. 

"But how are you to keep it from her? It is necessary she 
should know it, that you may take the steps proper to the alter- 
ation of your circumstances. You must change your style of 
living i^ay," observing a pang to pass across his counte- 
nance, " don't let that afflict you. I am sure you have never 
placed your happiness in outward show — you have yet friends, 
warm friends, who will not think the worse of you for being less 
splendidly lodged ; and surely it does not require a palace to be 
happy with Mary — " 

"I could be happy with her," cried he, convulsively, "in a 
hovel ! I could go down with her into poverty and the dust ! 



46 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

I could— I could— G-od bless her ! God bless her !" cried he, 
bursting into a transport of grief and tenderness. 

"And believe me, my friend," said I, stepping up, and grasp- 
ing him warmly by the hand, " believe me she can be the same 
with you. Ay, more : it will be a source of pride and triumph 
to her — it will call forth all the latent energies and fervent sym- 
pathies of her nature ; for she will rejoice to prove that she loves 
you for yourself. There is in every true woman's heart a spark 
of heavenly fire, which lies dormant in the broad daylight of 
prosperity ; but which kindles up, and beams and blazes in the 
dark hour of adversity. No man knows wdiat the wife of his 
bosom is — no man knows what a ministering angel she is — until 
he has gone with her through the fiery trials of this world." 

There was something in the earnestness of my manner, and 
the figurative style of my language, that caught the excited 
imagination of Leslie. I knew the auditor I had to deal with ; 
and following up the impression I had made, I finished by per- 
suading him to go home and unburden his sad heart to his wife. 

I must confess, notwithstanding all I had said, I felt some 
little solicitude for the result. Who can calculate on the forti- 
tude of one whose whole life has been a round of pleasures? 
Her gay spirits might revolt at the dark downw^ard path of low 
humility suddenly pointed out before her, and might cling to the 
sunny regions in which they had hitherto revelled. Besides, ruin 
in fashionable life is accompanied by so many galling mortifica- 
tions, to which in other ranks it is a stranger. In short, I could 
not meet Leslie the next morning without trepidation. He haa 
made the disclosure. 

'• And how did she bear it?" 

" Like an angel ! It seemed rather to be a relief to lier mind, 
for she threw her arms round my neck, and asked if this was all 



THE WIFE. 47 

that "had lately made me unhappy. But, poor girl," added he, 
" she cannot realize the change we must undergo. She has no 
idea of poverty but in the abstract ; she has only read of it in 
poetry, where it is allied to love. She feels as yet no privation ; 
she suffers no loss of accustomed couA^eniences nor elegancies. 
When we come practically to experience its sordid cares, its 
paltry wants, its petty humiliations — then will be the real trial." 

"But," said I, "now that you have got over the severest task, 
that of breaking it to her, the sooner you let the world into the 
secret the better. The disclosure may be mortifying ; but then 
it is a single miser}^, and soon over, whereas you otherwise suffer 
it, in anticipation, every hour in the day. It is not poverty so 
much as pretence, that harasses a ruined man — the struggle 
between a proud mind and an empty purse — the keeping up a 
hollow show that must soon come to an end. Have the courage 
to appear poor, and you disarm poverty of its sharpest sting." 
On this point I found Leslie perfectly prepared. He had no 
false pride himself, and as to his wife, she was only anxious to 
conform to their altered fortunes. 

Some days afterwards he called upon me in the evening. He 
had disposed of his dwelling house, and taken a small cottage 
in the country, a few miles from town. He had been busied all 
day in sending out furniture. The new establishment required 
few articles, and those of the simplest kind. All the splendid 
furniture of his late residence had been sold, excepting his 
wife's harp. That, he said, was too closely associated with the 
idea of herself; it belonged to the little story of their loves; for 
some of the sweetest moments of their courtship were those 
when he had leaned over that instrument, and listened to the 
melting tones of her voice. I could not bat smile at this in- 
stance of romantic gallantry in a doting husband. 



48 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

He was now going out to the cottage, where Lis wife had 
been all day superintending its arrangement. Mj feelings 
had become strongly interested in the progress of this family 
story, and, as it was a fine evening, I offered to accompany 
him. 

He was wearied with the fatigues of the day, and, as he walk- 
ed out, fell into a fit of gloomy musing. 

" Poor Mar}^ !" at length broke, with a heavy sigh, from his 
lips. 

"And what of her?'' asked I : "has any thing happened to 
her?" 

"What," said he, darting an impatient glance, "is it nothing 
to be reduced to this paltry situation — to be caged in a misera- 
ble cottage — to be obliged to toil almost in the menial concerns 
of her wretched habitation ?" 

" Has she then repined at the change?'' 

" Eepined ! she has been nothing but sweetness and good 
humor. Indeed, she seems in better spirits than I have ever 
known her; she has been to me all love, and tenderness, and 
comfort !" 

" Admirable girl !'' exclaimed I. " You call yourself poor^ 
my friend ; you never were so rich — you never knew the 
boundless treasures of excellence you possess in that woman." 

" Oh ! but, my friend, if this first meeting at the cottage were 
over, I think I could then be comfortable. But this is her first 
day of real experience ; she has been introduced into a humble 
dwelling — she has been employed all day in arranging its mis- 
erable equipments — she has, for the first time, known the fa- 
tigues of domestic employment — she has, for the first time, look- 
ed round her on a home destitute of every thing elegant — 
almost of every thing convenient; and may now be sitting 



THE WIFE. 



49 



down, exhausted and spiritless, brooding over a prospect of fu- 
ture poverty." 

There was a degree of probability in this picture that I could 
not gainsay, so we walked on in silence. 




After turning from the main road up a narrow lane, so thick- 
ly shaded with forest trees as to give it a complete air of seclu- 
sion, we came in sight of the cottage. It was humble enough in 
its appearance for the most pastoral poet ; and yet it had a 
pleasing rural look. A wild vine had overrun one end with a 
profusion of foliage ; a few trees threw their branches gracefully 
over it ; and I observed several pots of flowers tastefully dis- 
posed about the door, and on the grass-plot in front. A small 
wicket gate opened upon a footpath that wound through some 



50 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

shrubbery to the door. Just as we approached, we heard the 
sound of music — ^Leshe grasped my arm ; we paused and listen- 
ed. It was Mary's voice singing, in a style of tlie most touching 
simplicity, a little air of which her husband was peculiarly fond. 

I felt Leslie's hand tremble on my arm. He stepped forward 
to hear more distinctly. His step made a noise on the gravel 
walk. A bright beautiful face glanced out at the window and 
vanished — a light footstep was heard — and Mary came tripping 
forth to meet us : she was in a pretty rural dress of white ; a 
few wild flowers were twisted in her fine hair; a fresh bloom 
was on her cheek ; her whole countenance beamed with smiles — 
I had never seen her look so lovely. 

"My dear George," cried she, "I am so glad you are come! 
I have been watching aud watching for you ; and running down 
the lane, and looking out for 3^ou. I've set out a table under a 
beautiful tree behind the cottage; and I've been gathering some 
of the most delicious strawberries, for I know you are fond of 
them — and we have such excellent cream — and every thing is 
so sweet and still here — Oh!" said she, putting her arm within 
his, and looking up brightly in his face, "Oh, we shall be so 
happy!" 

Poor Leslie was overcome. He caught her to his bosom — he 
folded his arms around her — he kissed her again and again — ^he 
could not speak, but the tears gushed into his eyes ; and he has 
often assured me, that though the world has since gone prosper- 
ously with him, and his life has, indeed, been a happy one, yet 
never has he experienced a moment of more exquisite felicity. 



-J^ 




A ROYAL POET. 



"Though your body be confined, 
And soft love a prisoner bound, 
Yet the beauty of your mind 

Neither check nor chain hath found. 
Look out nobly, then, and dare 
Even the fetters that you wear." 

Fletcher. 

N a soft, sunny morning in the genial month of 
May, I made an excursion to Windsor Castle. 
It is a place full of storied and poetical associa- 
tions. The very external aspect of the proud old 
pile is enough to inspire high thought. It rears its 
irregular walls and massive towers, like a mural 
crown, round the brow of a lofty ridge, waves its 
royal banner in the clouds, and looks down, with a 
lordly air, upon the surrounding world. 

53 




54 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

On this morning the weather was of that voluptuous vernal 
kind, which calls forth all the latent romance of a man's tem- 
perament, filling his mind with music, and disposing him to 
quote poetry and dream of beauty. In wandering through the 
magnificent saloons and long echoing galleries of the castle, 
I passed with indifference by whole rows of portraits of warriors 
and statesmen, but lingered in the chamber where hang the 
likenesses of the beauties which graced the gay court of Charles 
the Second ; and as I gazed upon them, depicted with amorous, 
half-dishevelled tresses, and the sleepy eye of love, I blessed the 
pencil of Sir Peter Lely, which had thus enabled me to bask 
in the reflected rays of beauty. In traversing also the " large 
green courts," with sunshine beaming on the gray walls, and 
glancing along the velvet turf, my mind was engrossed with 
the image of the tender, the gallant, but hapless Surrey, and 
his account of his loiterings about them in his stripling days, 
when enamored of the Lady Greraldine — 

' With eyes cast up unto the maiden's tower, 
With easie sighs, such as men draw in love." 

In this mood of mere poetical susceptibility, I visited the ancient 
Keep of the Castle, where James the First of Scotland, the pride 
and theme of Scottish poets and historians, was for many years 
of his youth detained a prisoner of state. It is a large gray 
tower, that has stood the brunt of ages, and is still in good pres- 
ervation. It stands on a mound, which elevates it above the 
other parts of the castle, and a great flight of steps leads to the 
interior. In the armory, a Gothic hall, furnished with weapons 
of various kinds and ages, I was shown a coat of armor hanging 
against the wall, which had once belonged to James. Hence I 
was conducted up a staircase to a suite of apartments of faded 



A EOYAL POET. 



55 



magnificeuce, liung with storied tapestry, whicli formed his 
prison, and the scene of that passionate and fanciful amour, 
which has woven into the web of his story the magical hues of 
poetry and fiction. 




The whole history of this amiable but unfortunate prince is 
highly romantic. At the tender age of eleven he was sent from 
home by his father, Kobert III., and destined for the French 
court, to be reared under the eye of the French monarch, secure 
from the treachery and danger that surrounded the royal house 
of Scotland. It was his mishap in the course of his voyage to 
fall into the hands of the English, and he was detained prisoner 
by Henry lY., notwithstanding that a truce existed between the 
two countries. 

The intelligence of his capture, coming in the train of many 



56 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

sorrows and disasters, proved fatal to his unhappy father. " The 
news," we are told, " was brought to him while at supper, and 
did so overwhelm him with grief, that he w^as almost ready to 
o-ive up the ghost into the hands of the servant that attended 
him. But being carried to his bed-chamber, he abstained from 
all food, and in three days died of hunger and grief at Eothe- 
say."^ 

James was detained in captivity above eighteen years; but 
though deprived of personal liberty, he was treated with the 
respect due to his rank. Care was taken to instruct him in all 
the branches of useful knowledge cultivated at that period, and 
to give him those mental and personal accomplishments deemed 
proper for a prince. Perhaps, in this respect, his imprisonment 
was an advantage, as it enabled hina to apply himself the more 
exclusively to his improvement, and quietly to imbibe that rich 
fund of knowledge, and to cherish those elegant tastes, which 
have given such a lustre to his memory. The picture drawn of 
him in early life, by the Scottish historians, is highly captiva- 
ting, and seems rather the description of a hero of romance, than 
of a character in real history. He was well learnt, we are told, 
'' to fight with the sword, to joust, to tournay, to. wrestle, to sing 
and dance ; he was an expert mediciner, right crafty in playing 
both of lute and harp, and sundry other instruments of music, 
and was expert in grammar, oratory, and poetry." f 

With this combination of manly and delicate accomplish- 
ments, fitting him to shine both in active and elegant life, and 
calculated to give him an intense relish for joyous existence, it 
must have been a severe trial, in an age of bustle and chivalry, 
to pass the spring-time of his years in monotonous captivity. 

* Buchanan. •)• Ballenden's Translation of Hector Boyce. 



A EOYAL POET. 57 

It was the good fortune of James, however, to be gifted with a 
powerful poetic fancy, and to be visited in his prison by the 
choicest inspirations of the muse. Some minds corrode and 
grow inactive, under the loss of personal liberty ; others grow 
morbid and irritable ; but it is the nature of the poet to become 
tender and imaginative in the loneliness of confinement. He 
banquets upon the honey of his own thoughts, and, like the 
captive bird, pours forth his soul in melody : 



" Have you not seen the nightingale, 
A pilgrim coop'd into a cage, 
How doth she chant her wonted tale, 
In that her lonely hermitage ! 
Even there her charming melody doth prove 
That all her boughs are trees, her cage a grove."* 



Indeed, it is the divine attribute of the imagination, that it is 
irrepressible, unconfinable ; that when the real world is shut out, 
it can create a world for itself, and, with a necromantic power, 
can conjure up glorious shapes and forms, and brilliant visions, 
to make solitude populous, and irradiate the gloom of the dun- 
geon. Such was the world of pomp and pageant that lived 
round Tasso in his dismal cell at Ferrara, when he conceived 
the splendid scenes of his Jerusalem ; and we may consider the 
"King's Quair," composed by James, during his captivity at 
Windsor, as another of those beautiful breakings-forth of the 
soul from the restraint and gloom of the prison-house. 

The subject of the poem is his love for the Lady Jane Beau- 
fort, daughter of the Earl of Somerset, and a princess of the 
blood royal of England, of whom he became enamored in the 
course of his captivity. What gives it a peculiar value, is that 

=»= Koger L' Estrange. 



58 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

it may be considered a transcript of tlie royal bard's true feel- 
ings, and the story of liis real loves and fortunes. It is not 
often that sovereigns write poetry, or that poets deal in fact. 
It is o-ratifying to the pride of a common man, to find a mon- 
arch thus suing, as it were, for admission into his closet, and 
seeking to win his favor by administering to his pleasures. It 
is a proof of the honest equality of intellectual competition, 
which strips off all the trappings of factitious dignity, brings 
the candidate down to a level with his fellow-men, and obliges 
him to depend on his own native powers for distinction. It is 
curious, too, to get at the history of a monarch's heart, and to 
find the simple affections of human nature throbbing under the 
ermine. But James had learnt to be a poet before he was a 
king : he was schooled in adversity, and reared in the company 
of his own thoughts. Monarchs have seldom time to parley 
with their hearts, or to meditate their minds into poetry ; and 
had James been brought up amidst the adulation and gayety 
of a court, we should never, in all probability, have had such a 
poem as the Quair. 

I have been particularly interested by those parts of the poem 
which breathe his immediate thoughts concerning his situation, 
or which are connected with the apartment in the tower. They 
have thus a personal and local charm, and are given with such 
circumstantial truth, as to make the reader present with the 
captive in his prison, and the companion of his meditations. 

Such is the account which he gives of his weariness of spirit, 
and of the incident which first suggested the idea of writing the 
poem. It was the still midwatch of a clear moonlight night ; 
the stars, he says, were twinkling as fire in the high vault of 
heaven: and "Cynthia rinsing her golden locks in Aquarius." 
He lay in bed wakeful and restless, and took a book to beguile 



A ROYAL POET. 59 

the tedious hours. The book he chose was Boetius' Consola- 
tions of Philosophy, a work popular among the writers of that 
day, and which had been translated by his great prototype 
Chaucer. From the high eulogium in which he indulges, it is 
evident this was one of his favorite volumes while in prison : 
and indeed it is an admirable text-book for meditation under 
adversity. It is the legacy of a noble and enduring spirit, puri- 
fied by sorrow and suffering, bequeathing to its successors in 
calamity the maxims of sweet morality, and the trains of elo- 
quent but simple reasoning, by which it was enabled to bear 
up against the various ills of life. It is a talisman, which the 
unfortunate may treasure up in his bosom, or, like the good 
King James, lay upon his nightly pillow. 

After closing the volume, he turns its contents over in his 
mind, and gradually falls into a fit of musing on the fickleness 
of fortune, the vicissitudes of his own life, and the evils that 
had overtaken him even in his tender youth. Suddenly he 
hears the bell ringing to matins; but its sound, chiming in 
with his melancholy fancies, seems to him like a voice exhort- 
ing him to write his story. In the spirit of poetic errantry he 
determines to comply with this intimation : he therefore takes 
pen in hand, makes with it a sign of the cross to implore a ben- 
ediction, and sallies forth into the fairy land of poetry. There 
is something extremely fanciful in all this, and it is interesting 
as furnishing a striking and beautiful instance of the simple 
manner in which whole trains of poetical thought are sometimes 
awakened, and literary enterprises suggested to the mind. 

In the course of his poem he more than once bewails the pe- 
culiar hardness of his fate ; thus doomed to lonely and inactive 
life, and shut up from the freedom and pleasure of the world, 
in which the meanest animal indulges unrestrained. There is 



60 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

a sweetness, however, in his very complaints; they are the 
lamentations of an amiable and social spirit at being denied the 
indulgence of its kind and generous propensities ; there is noth- 
ing in them harsh nor exaggerated ; they flow with a natural 
and touching pathos, and are perhaps rendered more touching 
by their simple brevity. They contrast finely with those elabo- 
rate and iterated repinings, which we sometimes meet with in 
poetry — the effusions of morbid minds sickening under miseries 
of their own creating, and venting their bitterness upon an un- 
offending world. James speaks of his privations with acute 
sensibility; but, having mentioned them, passes on, as if his 
manly mind disdained to brood over unavoidable calamities. 
When such a spirit breaks forth into complaint, however brief, 
we are aware how great must be the suffering that extorts the 
murmur. We sympathize with James, a romantic, active, and 
accomplished prince, cut off in the lustihood of youth from all 
the enterprise, the noble uses, and vigorous delights of life ; as 
we do'with Milton, alive to all the beauties of nature and glories 
of art, when he breathes forth brief but deep-toned lamentations 
over his perpetual blindness. 

Had not James evinced a deficiency of poetic artifice, we 
might almost have susj)ected that these lowerings of gloomy 
reflection w^ere meant as ^preparative to the brightest scene of 
his story; and to contrast with that refulgence of light and 
loveliness, that exhilarating accompaniment of bird and song, 
and foliage and flower, and all the revel of the year, with which 
he ushers in the lady of his heart. It is this scene, in particu- 
lar, which throws all the magic of romance about the old Castle 
Keep. He had risen, he says, at daybreak, according to cus- 
tom, to escape from the dreary meditations of a sleepless pillow. 

"Bewailing in his chamber thus alone," despairing of all joy 
17 



A ROYAL POET. 61 

and remedy, "fortired of tliouglit and wobegone," lie liad wan- 
dered to the window, to indulge the captive's miserable solace 
of gazing wistfully upon the world from which he is excluded. 
The window looked forth upon a small garden which lay at the 
foot of the tower. It was a quiet, sheltered spot, adorned with 
arbors and green alleys, and protected from the passing gaze by 
trees and hawthorn hedges : 

Now was there made, fast by the tower's wall, 

A garden faire, and in the corners set 
An arbour green witli wandis long and small 

Railed about, and so with leaves beset 
Was all the place and hawthorn hedges knet, 

That lyf * was none, walkyng there forbye 

That might within scarce any wight espye. 

So thick the branches and the leves grene, 

Beshaded all the alleys that there were, 
And midst of every arbour might be sene 

The sharpe, grene, swete juniper. 
Growing so fair, with branches here and there, 

That as it seemed to a ly'f without, 

The boughs did spread the arbour all about. 

And on the small grene twistisf set 

The lytel swete nightingales, and sung 
So loud and clear, the hymnis consecrate 

Of lovis use, now soft, now loud among. 
That all the garden and the wallis rung 
Right of their song 

It was the month of May, when every thing was in bloom ; 
and he interprets the song of the nightingale into the language 
of his enamored feeling : 

Worship, all ye that lovers be, this Ma}^, 

For of your bliss the kalends are begun, 
And sing with us, away, winter, away. 

Come, summer, come, the sweet season and sun. 

* Lyf^ person. \ Tivistis, small boughs or twigs. 

Note. — The language of the quotations is generally modernized. 



52 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

As he gazes on the scene, and listens to the notes of the birds, 
he gradnally relapses into one of those tender and undefinable 
reveries, which fill the youthful bosom in this delicious season. 
He wonders what this love may be, of which he has so often 
read, and which thus seems breathed forth in the quickening 
breath of May, and melting all nature into ecstasy and song. 
If it really be so great a felicity, and if it be a boon thus gener- 
ally dispensed to the most insignificant beings, why is he alone 
cut off from its enjoyments? 

Ofc would I think, Lord, what may this be, 

That love is of such noble myght and kynde ? 

Loving his folke, and such prosperitee 
Is it of him, as we in books do find : 
May he oure hertes setten* and unbynd: 

Hath he upon our hertes such maistrye ? 

Or is all this but feynit fantasye ? 

For giflf he be of so grete excellence, 

That he of every wight hath care and charge, 

What have I gilt f to him, or done offense, 

That I am thral'd, and birdis go at large ? 

In the midst of his musing, as he casts his eye downward, he 
beholds " the fairest and the freshest young floure" that ever he 
had seen. It is the lovely Lady Jane, walking in the garden to 
enjoy the beauty of that "fresh May morrowe." Breaking thus 
suddenly upon his sight, in the moment of loneliness and excited 
susceptibility, she at once captivates the fancy of the romantic 
prince, and becomes the object of his wandering wishes, the sov- 
^ereign of his ideal world. 

There is, in this charming scene, an evident resemblance to 
the early part of Chaucer's Knight's Tale ; where Palamon and 
Arcite fall in love with Emilia, whom they see walking in the 

* Sdten, incline. f Gilt, what injury have I done, etc. 



A ROYAL POET. 



63 




garden of their prison. Perhaps the similarity of the actual 
fact to the incident which he had read in Chaucer may have 
induced James to dwell on it in his poem. His description of 
the Lady Jane is given in the picturesque and minute manner 
of his master; and, being doubtless taken from the life, is a 
perfect portrait of a beauty of that day. He dw.ells, with the 
fondness of a lover, on every article of her apparel, from the net 
of pearl, splendent with emeralds and sapphires, that confined 
her golden hair, even to the " goodly chaine of small orfeverye"* 



Wrought gold- 



64 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

about her neck, whereby there hung a ruby in shape of a heart, 
that seemed, he says, like a spark of fire burning upon her white 
bosom. Her dress of white tissue was looped up to enable her 
to walk with more freedom. She was accompanied by two fe- 
male attendants, and about her sported a little hound decorated 
with bells ; probably the small Italian hound of exquisite sym- 
metry, which was a parlor favorite and pet among the fashion- 
able dames of ancient times. James closes his description by a 
burst of general eulogium : 

In her was youth, beauty, with humble port, 

Bounty, richesse, and womanly feature ; 
God better knows then my pen can report, 

Wisdom, largesse,* estatc,f and cunning:}: sure. 
In every point so guided her measure. 

In word, in deed, in shape, in countenance, 

That nature might no more her child advance. 

The departure of the Lady Jane from the garden puts an end to 
this transient riot of the heart. With her departs the amorous 
illusion that had shed a temporary charm over the scene of his 
captivity, and he relapses into loneliness, now rendered tenfold 
more intolerable by this passing beam of unattainable beaut}'. 
Through the long and weary day he repines at his unhappy lot, 
and when evening approaches, and Phoebus, as he beautifully 
expresses it, had "bade farewell to every leaf and flower," he 
still lingers at the window, and, laying his head upon the cold 
stone, gives vent to a mingled flow of love and sorrow, until, 
gradually lulled by the mute melancholy of the twilight hour, 
he lapses, "half sleeping, half swoon," into a vision, which oc- 
cupies the remainder of the poem, and in which is allegoricall}^ 
shadowed out the historj^ of his passion. 

* Largesse, bounty. f Estate, dignity. % Gunning, discretion. 



A EOYAL POET. 



65 



^^; 




When lie wakes from liis trance, he rises from his stony pih 
low, and, pacing his apartment, full of dreary reflections, ques- 
tions his spirit, whither it has been wandering ; whether, indeed, 
all that has passed before his dreaming fancy has been conjured 
up by preceding circumstances ; or whether it is a vision, in- 
tended to comfort and assure him in his despondency. If the 
latter, he prays that some token may be sent to confirm the 
promise of happier days, given him in his slumbers. Suddenly, 
a turtle dove, of the purest whiteness, comes flying in at the 
window, and alights upon his hand, bearing in her bill a branch 
of red gilliflower, on the leaves of which is written, in letters of 
gold, the following sentence : 



66 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

Awake ! awake ! I bring, lover, I bring 

The newis glad that blissful is, and sure 

Of thy comfort ; now laugh, and plaj-, and sing, 
For in the heaven decretit is thy cure. 

He receives the branch Avith mingled hope and dread ; reads 
it with rapture : and this, he says, was the first token of his suc- 
ceeding happiness. Whether this is a mere poetic fiction, or 
whether the Lady Jane did actually send him a token of her 
favor in this romantic way, remains to be determined according 
to the faith or fancy of the reader. He concludes his poem, by 
intimating that the promise conveyed in the vision and by the 
flower is fulfilled,, by his being restored to liberty, and made 
happy in the possession of the sovereign of his heart. 

Such is the poetical account given by James of his love- 
adventures in Windsor Castle. How much of it is absolute 
fact, and how much the embellishment of fancy, it is fruitless to 
conjecture : let us not, however, reject every romantic incident 
as incompatible with real life ; but let us sometimes take a poet 
at his" word. I have noticed merely those parts of the poem 
immediately connected with the tower, and have passed over a 
large part, written in the allegorical vein, so mnch cultivated at 
that day. The language, of course, is quaint and antiquated, 
so that the beauty of many of its golden phrases will scarcely 
be perceived at the j)resent day ; but it is impossible not to be 
charmed with the genuine sentiment, the delightful artlessness 
and urbanity, which prevail throughout it. The descriptions of 
nature too, with which it is embellished, are given with a truth, 
a discrimination, and a freshness, worthy of the most cultivated 
periods of the art. 

As an amatory poem, it is edifying, in these days of coarser 
thinking, to notice the nature, refinement, and exquisite delicacy 
which pervade it ; banishing every gross thought or immodest 



A EOYAL POET. 0/ 

expression, and presenting female loveliness, clothed in all its 
chivalrous attributes of almost supernatural purity and grace. 

James flourished nearly about the time of Chaucer and Gower, 
and was evidently an admirer and studier of their writings. In- 
deed, in one of his stanzas he acknowledges them as his masters : 
and, in some parts of his poem, we find traces of similarity to 
their productions, more especially to those of Chancer. There 
are always, however, general features of resemblance in the 
works of contemporary authors, which are not so much bor- 
rowed from each other as from the times. Writers, like bees, 
toll their sweets in the wide world ; they incorporate with their 
own conceptions the anecdotes and thoughts current in society ; 
and thus each generation has some features in common, charac- 
teristic of the age in which it lived. 

James belongs to one of the most brilliant eras of our literary 
history, and establishes the claims of his country to a particijDa- 
tion in its primitive honors. Whilst a small cluster of English 
writers are constantly cited as the fathers of our verse, the name 
of their great Scottish compeer is apt to be passed over in si- 
lence ; but he is evidently worthy of being enrolled in that little 
constellation of remote but never-failing luminaries, who shine 
in the highest firmament of literature, and who, like morning- 
stars, sang together at the bright dawning of British poesy. 

Such of my readers as may not be familiar with Scottish his- 
tory (though the manner in which it has of late been woven with 
captivating fiction has made it a universal study), may be curi- 
ous to learn something of the subsequent history of James, and 
the fortunes of his love. , His passion for the Lady Jane, as it 
was the solace of his captivity, so it facilitated his release, it 
being imagined by the court that a connection with the blood 
royal of England would attach him to its own interests. He was 



58 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

ultimately restored to liis liberty and crown, having previously 
espoused the Lady Jane, who accompanied him to Scotland, and 
made him a most tender and devoted wife. 

He found his kingdom in great confusion, the feudal chief- 
tains having taken advantage of the troubles and irregularities 
of a long interregnum to strengthen themselves in their pos- 
sessions, and place themselves above the power of the laws. 
James sought to found the basis of his power in the affections 
of his people. He attached the lower orders to him by the 
reformation of abuses, the temperate and equable administration 
of justice, the encouragement of the arts of peace, and the pro- 
motion of every thing that could diffuse comfort, competency, 
and innocent enjoyment through the humblest ranks of society. 
He mingled occasionally among the common people in disguise ; 
visited their firesides ; entered into their cares, their pursuits, 
and their amusements ; informed himself of the mechanical arts, 
and how they could best be patronized and improved ; and was 
thus an all-pervading spirit, watching with a benevolent eye 
over the meanest of his subjects. Having in this generous 
manner made himself strong in the hearts of the common peo- 
ple, he turned himself to curb the power of the factious nobility ; 
to strip them of those dangerous immunities which the}" had 
usurped ; to punish such as had been guilty of flagrant offences ; 
and to bring the whole into proper obedience to the crown. 
For some time they bore this with outward submission, but 
with secret impatience and brooding resentment. A conspiracy 
was at length formed against his life, at the head of which was 
his own uncle, Robert Stewart, Earl of Athol, who, being too 
old himself for the perpetration of the deed of blood, instigated 
his grandson, Sir Robert Stewart, together with Sir Robert Gra- 
ham, and others of less note, to commit the deed. They broke 



A ROYAL POET. 69 

into his bedchamber, at the Dominican Convent, near Perth, 
where he was residing, and barbarously murdered him by oft- 
repeated wounds. His faithful queen, rushing to throw her 
tender body between him and the sword, was twice wounded in 
the ineffectual attempt to shield him from the assassin ; and it 
was not until she had been forcibly torn from his person, that 
the murder was accomplished. 

It was the recollection of this romantic tale of former times, 
and of the golden little poem which had its birthplace in this 
Tower, that made me visit the old pile with more than common 
interest. The suit of armor hanging up in the hall, richly gilt 
and embellished, as if to figure in the tournay, brought the 
image of the gallant and romantic prince vividly before my 
imagination. I paced the deserted chambers where he had 
composed his poem ; I leaned upon the window, and endeav- 
ored to persuade myself it was the very one where he had been 
visited by his vision ; I looked out upon the spot where he had 
first seen the Lady Jane. It was the same genial and joyous 
month ; the birds were again vying with each other in strains 
of liquid melody ; every thing was bursting into vegetation, and 
budding forth the tender promise of the year. Time, which 
delights to obliterate the sterner memorials of human j^ride, 
seems to have passed lightly over this little scene of poetry and 
love, and to have withheld his desolating hand. Several centu- 
ries have gone by, yet the garden still flourishes at the foot of 
the Tower. It occupies what was once the rnoat of the Keep ; 
and though some parts have been separated by dividing walls, 
yet others have still their arbors and shaded walks, as in the 
days of James, and the whole is sheltered, blooming, and retired. 
There is a charm about a spot that has been printed by the foot- 
steps of departed beauty, and consecrated by the inspirations 



70 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

of the poet, wliicli is lieiglitened, rather than impaired, by the 
lapse of ages. It is, indeed, the gift of poetry to hallow every 
place in which it moves; to breathe around nature an odor 
more exquisite than the perfume of the rose, and to shed over 
it a tint more magical than the blush of morning. 

Others may dwell on the illustrious deeds of James as a war- 
rior and a legislator ; but I have delighted to view him merely 
as the companion of his fellow-men, the benefactor of the human 
heart, stooping from his high estate to sow the sweet flowers of 
poetry and song in the paths of common life. He was the first 
to cultivate the vigorous and hardy plant of Scottish genius, 
which has since become so prolific of the most wholesome and 
highly-flavored fruit. He carried with him into the sterner 
regions of the north all the fertilizing arts of southern refine- 
ment. He did every thing in his power to win his countrymen 
to the gay, the elegant, and gentle arts, which soften and refine 
the character of a people, and wreathe a grace round the lofti- 
ness of a proud and warlike spirit. He wrote many poems, 
which, unfortunately for the fulness of his fame, are now lost to 
the world ; one, which is still preserved, called " Christ's Kirk 
of the Green," shows how diligently he had made himself ac- 
quainted with the rustic sports and pastimes which constitute 
such a source of kind and social feeling among the Scottish 
peasantry ; and with what simple and happy humor he could 
enter into their enjoyments. He contributed greatly to improve 
the national music ; and traces of his tender sentiment, and 
elegant taste, are said to exist in those witching airs, still piped 
among the wild mountains and lonely glens of Scotland. He 
has thus connected his image witli whatever is most gracious 
and endearing in the national character ; he has embalmed his 
memory in song, and floated his name to after-ages in the rich 



A ROYAL POET. 



71 



streams of Scottish melody. The recollection of these things 
was kindling at my heart as I paced the silent scene of his im- 
prisonment. I have visited Yauclnse with as much enthusiasm 
as a pilgrim would visit the shrine at Loretto ; but I have never 
felt more poetical devotion than when contemplating the old 
Tower and the little garden at Windsor, and musing over the 
romantic loves of the Lady Jane and the Koyal Poet of Scot- 
land 






THE COUNTEY CHURCH 

" A gentleman ! 
"What, o' the woolpack ? or the sugar-chest ? 
Or Usts of velvet ? which is't, pound or yard, 
You vend your gentry by?" 

Beggar's Bush. 

HERE are few places more favorable to the study 
of cliaracter than an English country church. I 
was once passing a few weeks at the seat of a 
friend, who resided in the vicinity of one, the ap- 
pearance of which particularly struck my fancy. It was one of 

73 




74 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

tliose rich morsels of quaint antiquity which give such a pecu- 
liar charm to English landscape. It stood in the midst of a 
country filled with ancient families, and contained, within its 
cold and silent aisles, the congregated dust of many noble gen- 
erations. The interior walls were incrustecl with monuments 
of every age and style. The light streamed through windows 
dimmed with armorial bearings, richly emblazoned in stained 
glass. In various parts of the church were tombs of knights 
and high-born dames, of gorgeous workmanship, with their effi- 
gies in colored marble. On every side the eye was struck with 
some instance of aspiring mortality; some haughty memorial 
which human pride had erected over its kindred dust, in this 
temple of the most humble of all religions. 

The congregation was composed of the neighboring people of 
rank, who sat in pews, sumptuously lined and cushioned, fur- 
nished with richly-gilded prayer-books, and decorated with their 
anus upon the pew doors ; of the villagers and peasantry, who 
filled the back-seats, and a small gallery beside the organ ; and of 
the poor of the parish, who were ranged on benches in the aisles. 

The service was performed by a snuffling, well-fed vicar, who 
had a snug dwelling near the church. He was a privileged 
guest at all the tables of the neighborhood, and had been the 
keenest fox-hunter in the country ; until age and good living 
had disabled him from doing any thing more than ride to see 
the hounds throw off, and make one at the hunting dinner. 

Under the ministry of such a pastor, I found it impossible to 
get into the train of thought suitable to the time and place ; so, 
having, like many other feeble Christians, compromised with my 
conscience, by laying the sin of my own delinquency at another 
person's threshold, I occupied myself by making observations 
on my neighbors. 



THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 75 

I was as yet a stranger in England, and curious to notice the 
manners of its fashionable classes. I found, as usual, that there 
was the least pretension where there was the most acknowledged 
title to respect. I was particularly struck, for instance, with the 
family of a nobleman of high rank, consisting of several sons 
and daughters. Nothing could be more simple and unassuming 
than their appearance. They generally came to church in the 
plainest equipage, and often on foot. The young ladies would 
stop and converse in the kindest manner with the peasantry, 
caress the children, and listen to the stories of the humble cot- 
tagers. Their countenances were open and beautifully fair, with 
an expression of high refinement, but, at the same time, a frank 
cheerfulness and an engaging affability. Their brothers were 
tall, and elegantly formed. They were dressed fashionably, but 
simply; with strict neatness and propriety, but withotit any 
mannerism or foppishness. Their whole demeanor was easy 
and natural, with that lofty grace and noble frankness which 
bespeak freeborn souls that have never been checked in their 
growth by feelings of inferiority. There is a healthful hardiness 
about real dignity, that never dreads contact and communion 
with others, however humble. It is only spurious pride that is 
morbid and sensitive, and shrinks from every touch. I was 
pleased to see the manner in which they would converse with 
the peasantry about those rural concerns and field-sports, in 
which the gentlemen of this country so much delight. In these 
conversations there was neither haughtiness on the one part, 
nor servility on the other ; and you were only reminded of the 
difference of rank by the habitual respect of the peasant. 

In contrast to these was the family of a wealthy citizen, who 
had amassed a vast fortune ; and, having purchased the estate 
and mansion of a ruined nobleman in the neighborhood, was 



fjQ THE SKETCH BOOK. 

endeavoring to assume all tlie style and dignity of an hereditary 
lord of the soil. The family always came to church en prince. 
They were rolled majestically along in a carriage emblazoned 
with arms. The crest glittered in silver radiance from every 
part of the harness where a crest could possibly be placed. A 
fat coachman, in a three-cornered hat, richly laced, and a flaxen 
wio-, curling close round his rosy face, was seated on the box, 
with a sleek Danish dog beside him. Two footmen, in gorgeous 
liveries, with huge bouquets, and gold-headed canes, lolled be- 
hind. The carriage rose and sunk on its long springs with 
peculiar stateliness of motion. The very horses champed their 
bits, arched their necks, and glanced their eyes more proudly 
than common horses ; either because they had caught a little 
of the family feeling, or were reined up more tightly than or- 
dinary. 

I could not but admire the style with which this splendid 
pageant was brought up to the gate of the church-yard. There 
was a vast effect produced at the turning of an angle of the wall 
— a great smacking of the whip, straining and scrambling of 
horses, glistening of harness, and flashing of wheels through 
gravel. This was the moment of triumph and vain-glory to the 
coachman. The horses were urged and checked until they were 
fretted into a foam. They threw out their feet in a prancing 
trot, dashing about pebbles at every step. The crowd of vil- 
lagers sauntering quietly to church, opened precipitately to the 
right and left, gaping in vacant admiration. On reaching the 
gate, the horses were pulled up with a suddenness that produced 
an immediate stop, and almost threw them on their haunches. 

There was an extraordinary hurry of the footman to alight, 
pull down the steps, and prepare every thing for the descent on 
earth of this august family. The old citizen first emerged his 



THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 



77 




round, red face from out the door, looking about him with the 
pompous air of a man accustomed to rule on 'Change, and shake 
the Stock Market with a nod. His consort, a fine, fleshy, com- 
fortable dame, followed him. There seemed, I must confess, 
but little pride in her composition. She was the joicture of 
broad, honest, vulgar enjoyment. The world went well with 
her; and she liked the world. She had fine clothes, a fine 
house, a fine carriage, fine children, every thing was fine about 
her : it was nothing but driving about, and visiting and feast- 
ing. Life was to her a perpetual revel ; it was one long Lord 
Mayor's day. 

Two daughters succeeded to this goodly couple. They cer- 
tainly were handsome ; but had a supercilious air, that chilled 
admiration, and disposed the spectator to be critical. They 



73 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

were ultra-fasliionable in dress ; and, though no one could deny 
the richness of their decorations, yet their appropriateness might 
be questioned amidst the simplicity of a country church. They 
descended loftily from the carriage, and moved up the line of 
peasantry with a step that seemed dainty of the soil it trod on. 
They cast an excursive glance around, that passed coldly over 
the burly faces of the peasantry, until they met the eyes of the 
nobleman's family, when their countenances immediately bright- 
ened into smiles, and they made the most profound and elegant 
courtesies, which were returned in a manner that showed they 
were but slight acquaintances. 

I must not forget the two sons of this aspiring citizen, w^ho 
came to church in a dashing curricle, with outriders. They 
were arrayed in the extremity of the mode, with all that pedan- 
try of dress which marks the man of questionable pretensions 
to style. They kept entirely by themselves, eyeing every one 
askance that came near them, as if measuring his claims to 
respectability ; yet they were without conversation, except the 
exchange of an occasional cant phrase. They even moved arti- 
ficially ; for their bodies, in compliance with the caprice of the 
day, had been disciplined into the absence of all ease and free- 
dom. Art had done every thing to accomplish them as men 
of fashion, but nature had denied them the nameless grace. 
They were vulgarly shaped, like men formed for the common 
purposes of life, and had that air of supercilious assumption 
which is never seen in the true gentleman. 

I have been rather minute in drawing the pictures of these 
two families, because I considered them specimens of what is 
often to be met with in this country — ^the unpretending great, 
and the arrogant little. I have no respect for titled rank, unless 
it be accompanied with true nobility of soul ; but I have re- 



THE COUI^TRr CHURCH. 79 

marked in all countries where artificial distinctions exist, that 
the very highest classes are always the most courteous and 
unassuming. Those who are well assured of their own standing 
are least apt to trespass on that of others ; whereas nothing is so 
offensive as the aspirings of vulgarity, which thinks to elevate 
itself by humiliating its neighbor. 

As I have brought these families into contrast, I must notice 
their behavior in church. That of the nobleman's family was 
quiet, serious, and attentive. Not that they appeared to have 
any fervor of devotion, but rather a respect for sacred things, 
and sacred places, inseparable from good breeding. The others, 
on the contrary, were in a perpetual flutter and whisper; they 
betrayed a continual consciousness of finery, and a sorry ambi- 
tion of being the wonders of a rural congregation. 

The old gentleman was the only one really attentive to the 
service. He took the whole burden of family devotion upon 
himself, standing bolt upright, and uttering the responses with 
a loud voice that might be heard all over the church. It was 
evident that he was one of those thorough church and king men 
who connect the idea of devotion and loyalty ; who consider the 
Deity, somehow or other, of the government party, and religion 
" a very excellent sort of thing, that ought to be countenanced 
and kept up." 

When he joined so loudly in the service, it seemed more by 
way of example to the lower orders, to show them that, though 
so great and wealthy, he was not above being religious; as I 
have seen a turtle-fed alderman swallow publicly a basin of 
charity soup, smacking his lips at every mouthful, and pro- 
nouncing it " excellent food for the poor." 

When the service was at an end, I was curious to witness the 
several exits of my groups. The young noblemen and their 



80 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



sisters, as the day was fine, preferred strolling home across the 
fields, chatting with the country people as they went. The 
others departed as they came, in grand parade. Again were 
the equipages wheeled up to the gate. There was again the 
smacking of whips, the clattering of hoofs, and the glittering 
of harness. The horses started off almost at a bound ; the vil- 
lagers again hurried to right and left ; the wheels threw up a 
cloud of dust ; and the aspiring family was rapt out of sight in 
a whirlwind. 










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